


pain

by pumpkinblood



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Blood, Clowns, Death, Smut, Violence, be warned, pennywise - Freeform, this is super violent and gross, you die at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 19:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinblood/pseuds/pumpkinblood
Summary: it doesn't love you.





	pain

**Author's Note:**

> this is not the way i envision or want pennywise to treat me lol but i was playing around with writing him really graphically and violent so this is what came of it. i also think i had had a really bad day at work the day i wrote this too lol. i love being a waitress sometimes /sarcasm/
> 
> trust me i prefer sweet soft clown usually but take this for what it is!

He was hurting you. He was hurting you, and he didn’t care - never did care. When did he ever care for how you felt, how the supple flesh beneath his clawed fingers gave way into hot pink muscle below, how the arch of the vertebrae in your spine ached with every thrust, how even his cock slammed into you with pain so deep it made involuntary tears prick at your eyes and roll down your face.

And oh, how he laughed at you.

Now, his laughter was garbled, a messy, sloshing sound as the blood and ripped skin from his own face was gargled about his mouth. He outright cackled into your face, howling with putrid giggles as you sobbed into the air, trying not to touch him, to meet his gaze, especially. It was too painful for you - this pain, stabbing deep within the confines of your tender, human heart - to see him as he fucked you, because you knew, that’s all he was doing - fucking you.

You had to remind yourself sometimes, that he couldn’t love you. Wouldn’t love you.

You did though, love him, so when you had walked into the house on Neibolt after the commotion and there he was, the clown’s head tilted to the side and a steel spike pressed into his face, so far that the ends were poking out of either side of his head, you cried. You broke down, entirely, seeing that beast like that, and you knew it had to hurt him so fucking badly. His tears dripped upwards and mixed with his alien blood, rising up and hitting the ceiling with a wet push.

Pennywise didn’t understand where the emotion - sadness - was coming from, but he didn’t care, he never would care but he could make something of it. You had your value, to an extent, and the only reason he hadn’t ripped out your throat and drank your blood like wine was because of the smell that always wafted from between your legs, and the fact that you always stunk of negativity. Depression and anxiety had flooded your aura to the point it was nearly nauseating for the clown to smell but it made you taste so good. The love you had for him made you sickening, and he hated it, but he loved your sadness so much more.

That’s why your pain was so important to him, in the situation you were in, riding the clown so hard and so fast your legs would surely break, your hair being tugged back so roughly it began to pull from your scalp. In order to manage the impossible position you were in you reached your hands up and grabbed onto the metal pole still sheathed inside the clown’s head, using it as leverage as he fucked into you so hard you couldn’t even make a noise. All you could muster was a pitiful whimpering sound as you stared up into the air above you, not daring to look down at the clown, at the monster whose cock was currently so far up inside you you swore you could taste it on the back of your tongue. You wanted to puke.

You rode him like a carousel pony, the iron bar pulling with you, and Pennywise roared out as you moved your arms back and forth in tandem with your hips, the pain you caused him would be thrown back at you tenfold, you knew, but the squirming tentacle so deep inside began to send little jolts of pleasure, and you didn’t care anyways - he could reach his long jaws forward and snap your little neck in half, and you wouldn’t care to stop it. Pennywise had taken everything from you, your happiness, your friends, family, your entire life had gone missing within the abyss that was the clown, and you were sure you’d be next after he decided you’d decreased in value.

Your hands began to slip from the blood coating the pole and they ended where he began, both of your palms pressed against the junction where the spike met his severed jaw, your fingers entangling in the mass of protruding teeth and bone and flesh, and he noted this and his eyes flashed to yours. You saw evil, pure, unadulterated evil in his pupils and suddenly he was biting, gnashing his way through your soft hands, teeth slicing into the meat of your palms and you were screaming, trying to pull your hands from his gaping mouth but it was no use - the clown had bitten directly through to the bones in your hands, allowing your blood to gush into his jaw like a molten river. The thrusts he gave you never, ever stopped as he feasted upon your wrists, his eyes closed in the pleasure he reveled in. Such a delicious treat, you were, your walls clenching around him as you wailed in pain, but he knew that, given the choice, you’d do it all again - for him, because that’s what your love for him was - manipulation and grief, subtlety and pretend. You didn’t love him, he forced you to, but you didn’t have to know that. You only knew that your brain processed your feelings into what seemed of love for the clown, when you were truthfully just caught in his web.

So you took it. You were there, getting fucked in his lap, the bleeding stumps of your hands lay within the beast’s mouth as he chewed upon you, sharp spike still embedded through his face, and you took it. If Pennywise couldn’t, wouldn’t love you, you’d allow him to do the next best thing - kill you, eat you, gobble you up and swallow you down into the pits of hell that you knew you would be met with. Somehow, you knew he’d be your demise, he always had a way of getting what he wanted and he’d never stop, not for you, not for anything, because there was nothing else, nothing else that mattered but him, and you’d finally realized that as he ate from you, your hands turning into wrists turning into forearms and finally, his split-apart face was at your throat. Pennywise came into you with a piercing sound from his throat, his heat overflowing from between your thighs as soon as he sliced into your neck, teeth pulling apart your jugular. Blood immediately spewed from you, and you choked, heaving cries and coughs erupting from you and you stared into the monster’s eyes as he deepened his kiss on your skin, mouth reaching into your flesh so deep his tongue massaged the back of your neck from the inside. What was left of your torn fingers still grasped onto the pole, and they moved down so they were buried in the clown’s hair, bloody nails running through fiery strands in a gentle touch - you knew he didn’t care, your love for him meant nothing, you meant nothing, but as you bleed out in the clown’s lap you needed closure from him, from yourself, even, and the touch from your hand to his head was enough, it was always enough, he was enough, and you let yourself go - or tried to, anyways.

Pennywise would never let you die so quickly.


End file.
